Weighing Anchor
by ThePunkiest
Summary: A tale about a little boy who wasn't so little, and a young woman whose shoes don't fit quite right. A reader insert.
1. Chapter 1: A New Home

Rain poured from the skies, buckets of the stuff, as you ran for shelter. Heels slapping the slick pavement, you finally caught sight of your new home. With a quick expel of hot air from your mouth, you ran even faster to your door, desperately searching for your key. You find the little bastard hiding in a little pocket to the side. You turn it in the lock, and whip open the door, hurtling yourself inside, dripping wet and freezing. You shudder as you slip the heels off of your feet, and shuffle to your bathroom, grabbing a towel from the door. You rub your soaked hair, hissing and spitting at your luck. "WHY did I even THINK it would be a good idea to move to ENGLAND, of all places? Spain? No, much too cheery and warm. France? Nooo, of course not. The food is MUCH too good. Germany? Being offered a beer every time I come into a person's home? NO!" You grumble, wrapping the towel around you and went off into the kitchen. "Of course," you muse to yourself, "I could have certainly picked a better place in Britain to stay. Maybe with less rain." You ready the ingredients for a certain tea you favored, and set the electric teapot to boil. You sigh, and lean your forehead against the cupboard. "I wouldn't even be here if not for the money..." You whisper, tightening the towel around your shoulders. Fortunately for you, you did not notice the curtains being drawn back in the house directly across the street, nor the two vivid blue eyes peek out from the upstairs window. The eyes narrowed for a moment or two, focusing and taking in your slumped form. But then, they widened, and widened further, and the little boy with the funny hat knew that he didn't have to play alone anymore.


	2. Chapter 2: A New Friend

It was quiet when you woke up. No chirping birds, no barking dogs, no wind blowing gently through the trees... Just eerie, uncomfortable silence. The only audible sound in your room was your shallow breathing, and the faint rustling of bed sheets slipping to the ground. Your feet, which were freezing cold through the first half of the night, and boiling hot through the next, gently slid across the hardwood floors as you stood and walked to the small bathroom. What you saw in the mirror made you sigh. Chapped lips, tired eyes, and a less than perfect complexion stared back, accusatory and furious. "Jesus..." You mumbled, covering your eyes and rubbing them. Although you knew that eight hours on a plane would be less than pleasant, this was... Ghastly. Absolutely atrocious. You let your head slowly sink down to the sink's rim, the cool porcelain forgiving. In two more hours, you would have to go grocery shopping with currency you had no idea how to use, walk around a neighborhood that brought back unpleasant memories, and get ready for your new job: a secretarial position for some bigwig in government. Oh, well. At least the money was good. As you pick up your toothbrush and stick it into your mouth, you notice a faint tapping noise. You still, and listen again. The noise continued, though less rapid, and what sounded like footsteps running away from your house. Toothbrush still in your mouth, you jogged to your front door and whipped it open, suspicious. Nothing was there, not a bird, plane, or man. Not a... You look down at your feet, and make a high pitched sound deep in your throat as you leap away. A teddy bear? What was a teddy bear in a sailor's costume doing on your front steps? Cautiously, you poked it with your toe, and it fell on it's side. You'd heard stories of men giving women stuffed animals with cameras in their eyes to spy on them while they dressed. You narrowed your eyes, and considered throwing it into the bushes, or the trash can in your kitchen. You wanted to, probably should have, and would have, if... If the thing didn't look so... Not familiar, but as if you had seen it before, in a dream that you had when you were very young. So, with that thought, you picked it up by it's tiny sewn-on hat and sat it down on your kitchen table. If not good for anything else, it would be good as a friend.

The child watched from the hedge as you stared at his favorite toy, looking as if you were having a particularly stumping chess match in your head. And, with an annoyed sneer, you pick up his teddy by his hat with your index and middle finger, and unceremoniously put him on your kitchen table. A devious grin stretched across his mouth, and he stifled a giggle. He knew you couldn't have forgotten! He stood up, brushing off leaves and sticks, and made his way back to his home. Now, how to make you come to his home and make you agree into properly marrying him!


	3. Chapter 3: A New Neighbor

You needed better shoes. This thought, and this thought only, is what gave you the push you needed to fully get yourself out the front door. Only bringing high heels to a country as dreary and rainy as England was certainly an idiot move. Fortunately, at that particular moment, the skies were a clear forget-me-not blue, with not a cloud in the sky. So, you locked up your house and set off to the various stores nearest to you. As your heels clicked purposefully down the steps to your house, you couldn't help but get an eyeful of the Victorian manor right across the street from you. It was grand, yes, and you probably couldn't ever afford something like it. But, you thought, it was very boring. A beige the colour of old sandstone, no ivy creeping up the walls, not even flowers in the front yard… It looked like it belonged to a grumpy old widow. Oh, its interior was probably gorgeous, but the premise and building itself was seriously lacking any kind of colour or any sign of happiness. That is, except from the sea-blue room you spied through an open window. If you listened carefully, you could swear that there was children's laughter coming from the room. But, a child living _there?_ You couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for the poor thing. All the other windows of the house had their curtains drawn. As you stared at the house, your eyes strayed to the wrought-iron gate that encompassed the property. That, coupled with the dreariness of the house, suddenly gave you the feeling of being trapped. Shivering, you pulled your sweater ever closer to your frame. Just as you were about to tear your eyes away from the manor, you noticed a young man walking on the street opposite you.

He looked to be around your age, with blonde hair and straight posture. You couldn't get a good look at his face, but you had the suspicious feeling you had seen him somewhere before. He pulled keys from his right pocket, and your eyes widened as he stopped at the gate to the mansion. He pulled back the gate with a loud _creak!_ And stepped inside the premise, shutting and locking the gate behind him. As you watched him open the front door, you heard him call into the house, something along the lines of, "Sealand! I'm home! You had better bloody not have been in my study!" And, just as quickly as he had come, he was gone again, the front door shut tightly behind him. Curious, you thought. Maybe the house belonged to his parents? Or maybe he was much older than he looked and he, himself, owned the building? You had heard him call to someone, perhaps he was a father? But what kind of name was Sealand? "Ugh..." you grumble, "Too much thinking for today." You look away from the house, and begin walking again.

Eyes much too vividly green to be totally normal stared at your retreating back, blinking once, then twice. Why had you been staring at him? He shook his head and closed the curtains. It didn't matter. Anyway, you were a new neighbor, and he wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood. And that meant inviting you over to tea, with handmade scones and tea biscuits. Yes, he thought, I'll invite her over tonight.


	4. Chapter 4: A New Set of Tastebuds

As you walked back home some two and a half hours later, feet aching and arms weighed heavily down by groceries and a few new pairs of shoes (it had been a gong show trying to find ones that fit), you nearly stepped into the house before noticing the slip of paper that was pointedly sticking out of your mailbox. You grunted and stepped into the kitchen, setting down the groceries and let your arms hang limply from your sides. Stepping back outside, you pull the letter from your mailbox. The envelope was made from very expensive paper, you noticed, as it felt very soft and looked aged. Breaking the seal with your thumb, you pulled the slip of paper from the envelope, and began to read.

 _Dear Madame,_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Arthur Kirkland, your neighbor just across the way. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on moving to this fine community, and what would be better to congratulate you than a fine, home cooked meal, made by myself? I dearly hope that you do not find this letter too sudden for your tastes, but both I and my younger brother had not seen your home in use for many years, and we would be delighted to make your acquaintance. I hope that you will be able to attend._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Arthur Kirkland_

Huh. So, this was the guy you'd watched go into the house earlier? Inviting you for dinner was very kind of him. Alright, you thought to yourself, I'll go. But I'll have to change. Easier said than done. You didn't think just a small dinner would be too formal, but you didn't want to go and be totally underdressed, looking like a slob. No, you decided, a pair of jeans and a nice blouse would more than suffice. So, you put on your chosen clothes, brushed your teeth, and read a book until the allotted time.

A few hours later, you checked the clock and found that it was time to go. Pulling on a light jacket, you stepped out and locked your door. It was a bit windier than you thought, and you hurried across the street. The gate creaked as you opened and closed it, grateful that Mr. Kirkland had unlocked it for you. At the front steps, you rung the bell and waited.

It wasn't a minute later that you heard the knob turn. The door opened with a groan, and the very first thing you saw through the door frame was the Union Jack. Or, a patch of the Union Jack on Mr. Kirkland's knitted vest. You raised your eyes to his face, and found it very pleasant to look at. Kind green eyes, more green than you had ever seen on a regular person, stared right back. Prominent, dark eyebrows sat atop his eyes. Hair, a wheat-like blonde. But it wasn't until he smiled, and you saw his eyes squeeze shut, that he wore a smile beautifully. Arthur Kirkland extended his hand. "Hello. Ms. (L/N), I presume?" He asked. You smiled back, eyes lighting up. "Yes. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Kirkland. Thank you for inviting me." Mr. Kirkland chuckled, and moved away from the door. "Not at all!" He said, and you stepped into his home. He moved behind you, and slipped your jacket off your shoulders. As he did this, you gazed around you. "Oh…" You breathed, voice stuck in your throat. His home was _beautiful._ Dark, polished wooden floors, and classic antiques and paintings adorned the walls and various corners of the entrance hall. You turned to him as he hung your jacket on a coat rack and grinned. "Your home is _amazing!"_ You say, and he startles at the compliment. You saw a faint blush work up to his pale cheeks. "I-I… Well, _thank you,_ Ms. (L/N)." He said, and, with a nod, led you to the dining room. There were constant treasures walking along the way, all of them either extremely old or expensive. You also spotted countless doors, all closed. And Before you knew it, your eyes focused on a grand oak dinner table, plastered with different dishes. "This is the dining room, and where we will be eating this evening." Mr. Kirkland said, as he pulled a chair out for you. When you were seated, he took the liberty of pouring you a glass of lemonade. And as he poured, he spoke. "I have a younger brother, but I have no idea where he's gotten off to," he said, and finished pouring your drink. He sat the pitcher down, and took a seat directly in front of you. You had a vague feeling that Mr. Kirkland could be a very serious individual, when need be. You smiled, and, not wanting to be impolite, took a sip of your lemonade. It was perfect. Just as you were about to open your mouth, you heard footsteps clamoring down the grand staircase in the living room. Kirkland put a hand to his face, and sighed. "That boy…" He mumbled, rubbing his face with his hand, "How many times have I told him _not_ to run down the stairs like that?" You snorted and giggled at his tone, but turned your head when you heard footsteps enter the dining room. And what you saw was bizarre.


End file.
